Flash For Freedom!

12

I blame myself. If there is one thing that can make me randier than usual, it is danger safely past, and with a creature like Cassy to occupy me I don't give a thought to anything else. She, for her part, was probably still so distraught that she was ready to abandon herself altogether — she said later that she had never willingly made love to a man before, and I believed her. I suppose if you've been a good-looking female slave, used to being hauled into bed by a lot of greasy planters whether you like it or not, it sours you against men, and when you meet a fine upstanding lad like me, who knows when to tickle rather than slap — well, you're grateful for the change, and make the most of it. But whatever the reasons, the upshot was that Mr and Mrs Montague spent that night and the rest of next day in passionate indulgence, never bothering about the world outside, and that was how I came adrift yet again.

Of course, a moralist would say that this was to be expected: he would doubtless point out that I had fornicated my way almost continuously along the Mississippi valley, and draw the conclusion that all my trials arose from this. I don't know about that, as a general statement, but I'll agree that if I hadn't made such a beast of myself in Cassy's case I would have avoided a deal of trouble.

What with sleeping and dallying, it was late on the next afternoon before I tumbled out to dress myself and take a turn on the promenade; it was a splendid sunny day, the good ship Missouri was booming along in great style, and I was in that sleepy, well-satisfied state where you just want to lean on the rail, smoking and watching the great river roll by, with the distant bank half hidden in haze, and the lumber rafts and river craft sweeping down, their crews waving, and the whistles tooting overhead. Cassy wouldn't come out, though; she decided that the less she was seen the better, until we were up among the free states, which was sensible.

Well, thinks I, you've had some bad luck, my boy, but surely it's behind you now. Charity Spring and his foul ship, the noseyparkering Mr Lincoln, the Yankee Navy — they were all a long way south. I could smile at the ludicrous figure of George Randolph, although he had brought me catastrophe enough at the time; the abominable Mandeville and his shrew of a wife, the terror of the slave-cart, and the anxieties of Memphis — all by and done with, Up the Ohio to Louisvffle and then Pittsburgh, a quick trip to New York, and then it would be England again, and not before time. And Flashy the Vampire could go to work on his father-inlaw — I was looking forward to that, rather.

I wondered, as I watched the brown water swirling by, what would become of Cassy. If she'd been a woman of less character I'd have been regretful at the thought of parting soon, for she was a fine rousing gallop, all sleek hard flesh like an athlete, except for her top hamper. But she was too much the spitfire, really; her present lazy compliance didn't fool me. I'd bid her farewell around Pittsburgh, where she'd be as safe as the bank, and could travel easily to Canada if she wanted. There, with her looks and spirit, she'd have no difficulty in getting a fortune somehow, I'd no doubt. Not that I minded, but she was a game wench.

Presently I went back to the state-room, and ordered up a dinner — the first full meal we had sat down to in style, and the first Cassy had had since she was a little girl, she told me. Although we were alone in the cabin, she insisted on putting on the finest dress I had bought her; it was a very pale coffee-coloured satin, I remember, and those golden shoulders coming out of it, and that strange Egyptian head of hers, with its slanting eyes, quite kept me off my food. That night she tasted port for the first time in her life; I recall her sipping it and setting down the glass, and saying:

"This is how the rich live, is it not? Then I am going to be rich. What use is freedom to the poor?"

Well, thinks I, it doesn't take long to get ambition; yesterday all you wanted was to be free. However, all I said was:

"What you want is a rich husband. Shouldn't be difficult."

She clicked her lips in contempt. "I need no man, from now on. You are the last man I shall be indebted to — I should hate you for it, but I don't. Do you know why? It is not just because you helped me, and kept your word — but you were kind also. I shall never forget that."

Poor little simple black girl, I was thinking, to mistake absence of cruelty for kindness; just wait till it serves my interest to do you a dirty turn, and you'll form a different opinion of me. And then she took me aback by going on:

"And yet I know that you are not by nature a kind man; that there is little love in you. I know there is lust and selfishness and cruelty, because I feel it when you take me; you are just like the others. Oh, I don't mind — I prefer that. I tell myself that it levels the score I owe you. And yet, it cannot quite level it, ever, because even although you are such a man as I have always taught myself to hate and despise-still, there were moments when you were kind. Do you understand?"

"Clearly," says I. "You're maudlin. It's the port, of course." Tell the truth, I was half-amused, half-angry, at the way she told me what she thought of me. Still, if the fool wanted to think I was kind, she was welcome. She was looking at me in her odd, solemn way, and do you know, it made me somehow uncomfortable; those big eyes saw far too much. "You're a strange chit," I told her.

"Not as strange as the man who buys a dress like this one for a runaway slave girl," says she, and blast me if the tears didn't start again.

Well, there you are; understand 'em if you can. So to cheer her up, and put an end to her foolish talk I came round and took her, across the table this time, with the crockery rattling all over the place, the wine splashing on the floor, and my left knee in a bowl of fruit. It was a fine frenzied business, and pleased me tremendously. When it was over I looked down at her, with the knives and forks scattered round her sleek head, and told her she should run away more often.

She reached over an apple and began to eat it, her eyes smouldering as she looked up at me.

"I shall never have to run again," she said. "Never, never, never."

That was all she knew. Our blissful little idyll was coming to an end, for next morning I made a discovery that turned everything topsy-turvy, and drove all thoughts of philosophy out of her head. I had determined to breakfast in the saloon, and leaving her in bed I took a turn round the deck to sharpen my appetite. It seemed to me that we ought to be making Louisville sometime that day, and seeing a bluff old chap leaning at the rail I inquired of him when we might expect to arrive.

He looked at me in amazement, removed his cigar, and says:

"Gawd bless mah soul, suh! Did you say Louisville?"

"Certainly," says I. "When will we get there?"

"On this boat, suh? Never, 'pon my word."

"What?" I gazed at the man, thunderstruck.

"This boat, suh, is for St Louis — not Louisville. This is the Mississippi river, suh, not the Ohio. For Louisville you should have caught the J. M. White at Memphis." He regarded me with some amusement. "Do I take it you have boa'ded the wrong steamer, suh?"

"My God," says I. "But they told me —" And then I remembered my shouted conversation in the rain with that drivelling buffoon at the steamboat office; the useless old bastard had caught the word "Louis" only, and given me the wrong boat. Which meant that I was some hundreds of miles from where I wanted to be-and Cassy was as far from the free states as ever.

If I was dismayed, you should have seen her; she went blazing wild and hurled a pot of powder at my head, which fortunately missed.

"You fool! You blockhead! Hadn't you the sense to look at the tickets?" So much for all my kindness that she'd been so full of.

"It wasn't my fault," says I, trying to explain, but she cut me off.

"Do you realise the danger we are in? These are slave states! And we should have been close to Ohio by now! Your idiocy will cost me my freedom!"

"Stuff and nonsense! We can catch a boat from St Louis back to Louisville and be there in two days; where's the danger?"

"For a runaway like me? Turning south again, towards the people who may be coming up river to look for me. Oh, dear Lord, why did I trust an ape like you?"

"Ape, you insolent black slut? Blast you, if you had taken thought yourself, instead of whoring about this last two days like a bitch in heat, you'd have seen we were on the wrong road. D'you expect me to know one river from another in this lousy country?"

Our discussion continued on these lines for a spell, and then we quieted down. There was nothing to be done except wait through an extra two days in the slave states, and while Cassy was fearful of the prolonged risk, she said she supposed we could make Louisville, and then Cincinnati and Pittsburgh, safe enough. However, the shock didn't make our voyage any happier, and we were barely on speaking terms by the time we reached St Louis, where some more bad news awaited us. Although the river was thick with steamboats, traffic was so heavy that there wasn't a state-room, or even a maindeck passage, to be had for two days, which meant that we must kick our heels in a hotel, waiting for the Bostona, which would carry us up the Ohio.

We kept under cover for those forty-eight hours, except for one trip that I made down to the steamship office, and to buy one of the new Army Colt revolvers, just in case. At the same time I was able to take a look at the town, which interested me, because in those days St Louis was a great swarming place that never went to bed, and was full of every species of humanity from the ends of America and beyond. There were all the Mississippi characters, steamboat people, niggers, planters, and so on, and in addition the place was choc-a-bloc with military from the Mexican war, with Easterners and Europeans on their way to the Western gold fields, with hunters and traders from the plains, men in red shirts and buckskins, bearded to the eyes and brown as nuts, salesmen and drummers, clergymen and adventurers, ladies in all the splendours of the Eastern salons shuddering delicately away from the sight of some raucous mountain savage crouched vomiting in the muddy roadway with his bare backside, tanned black as mahogany, showing through his cutaway leather leggings. There were skinners with their long whips, sharps in tall hats with paste pins in their shirts, tall hard men chewing tobacco with their long coats thrown back to show the new five- and six-shooters stuck in thefr belts; there was even a fellow in a kilt lounging outside a billiard saloon with a bunch of yarning loafers as they eyed the white and yellow whores, gay as peacocks, tripping by along the boardwalk. From the levee, crammed with bales and boxes and machinery, to the narrow, mud-churned streets uptown, it was all bustle and noise and hurry, and stuck in the middle was the church St Louis was all so proud of, with its Grecian pillars and pointed fresco — just like a London club with a spire stuck on top.

And I was sauntering back to the hotel, smoking a cigar, and congratulating myself that we would be on our way tomorrow, when I chanced to stop outside an office on one of the streets, just to cast an idle eye over the official bills and notices posted there. You know the way of it; you are just gaping for gaping's sake, and then suddenly you see something that shrivels the hairs right down to your backside. There it was, a new bill, staring me full in the face:

ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD!!

I will pay the above sum to any person or persons who

will capture, DEAD or ALIVE, the Murderer and Slave

stealer calling himself TOM ARNOLD, who is wanted for

the brutal killings of George Hiscoe and Thomas Little,

in Marshall County, Mississippi, and stealing away the

female slave, CASSIOPEIA, the property of Jacob Forster, of

Blue Mountain Spring Plantation, Tippah County, Mississippi.

The fugitive is six feet in height, long-legged and well

built, customarily wears a Black Moustache and Whiskers,

and has Genteel Manners. He pretends to be a Texian, but

speaks with a Foreign Accent. Satisfactory proofs of

identity will be required.

ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD!!

Offered in the name and authority of

Joseph W. Matthews,

Governor of Mississippi.

I didn't faint away dead on the spot, but I had to hold on to a rail while the full import of it sank in. They had found the bodies, and assumed I had murdered them, and the traps were in full cry. But here-hundreds of miles away? And then I remembered the telegraph. They'd be looking in every town from St Louis to Memphis by now — you'd have thought, with killings happening every day in their savage country, that they wouldn't make such a row over another two: but of course it was the slave-stealing that had really stirred them up. Here was added reason for getting to the free states quickly; in Ohio they wouldn't give a damn how many nigger-beaters' throats I'd cut, especially in such a good cause-I'd learned enough in my brief unhappy experience of the United States to know that it was two countries even then, and they hated each other like poison. Yes, up there I'd be safe, and on trembling legs I hurried back to the hotel, to break the glad news that they were after us with a vengeance.

Cassy gasped and went pale, but she didn't cry, and while I was stamping about chewing my nails and swearing she got out a map which we had bought, and began to study it. Her finger was trembling as she traced the route down from St Louis to the Cairo fork, and then north-east up the Ohio river. At Louisville she stopped.

"Well, what now?" says I. "That's only a two-day journey, and we'll be beyond their reach, won't we?"

She took her head. "You do not understand. The Ohio river is the boundary between the slave states and the free, but even in the free states we are not safe until we have gone well upriver. See —" She traced again. "From Louisville to Cincinnati and far beyond that, we still have slave states on our right hand, first Kentucky and then Virginia. If we were to land on the Indiana or Ohio shores, we should be in free states, but I could still be retaken by the slave-catchers who are thick along the river."

"But — but — I thought the free state folk sheltered slaves, and helped them. Surely they can't take you off free state soil?"

"Of course they can!" There were tears in her eyes now. "Oh, if we could be sure of finding an abolitionist settlement, or an underground railroad station, all would be well, but how do we know? There are laws forbidding people in Ohio to aid runaways slaves are caught and dragged back across the river daily by these bands of catchers, with their guns and dogs! And with the time we have lost here, notices of my running from Memphis will have reached the Kentucky shore — my name will have been added to the list of the other poor hunted creatures trying to escape north!"

"Well, what the blazes can we do?"

She traced on the map again. "We must stay aboard our steamboat all the way to Pittsburgh, if indeed the boats run so far in this weather.³⁸ If not, they will at least take us far enough up the Ohio to catch a train from one of the eastern Ohio towns into Pennsylvania. Once we are in Pittsburgh we can laugh at all the slave-catchers in the South — and you will be far beyond the reach of the Mississippi law."

Well, that was a comforting thought. "How long does it take?" says I.

"To Pittsburgh by boat? Five days." She bit her lip and began to tremble again. "Within a week from now I shall be either free or dead."

I wish she'd thought of some other way of putting it, and it crossed my mind that I might be a good deal safer parting company with her. On the other hand, a boat to Pittsburgh was the fastest way home, and if we kept to our cabin the whole way we should come through safe. They don't look for runaway slaves in staterooms. They might look there for a murderer, though — and blast it, I hadn't even done the murders! Could I fob them off on her if the worst came to the worst? But it wouldn't — there must be a limit to the distance they could chase us.

It was in a fine state of the shakes that we boarded the Bostona the next morning, and I didn't know an easy moment until we had passed the Cairo fork that night and were steaming up the Ohio. I drank a fair amount, and Cassy sat gazing out towards the northern shore, but early on the second morning we reached Louisville without incident, and I began to breath again. Evening saw us at Cincinnati and Cassy was in a fever of anxiety for the boat to move off again; Cincinnati, although on the Ohio side, was a great place for slave-catchers, and she cried with relief when the side-wheel started at last and we churned on upriver.

But at breakfast time next day there was a rude awakening. The weather had grown colder and colder throughout our journey, and now when you looked overside there were great cakes of dirty brown and green ice riding down the current, and a powdering of snow lying on the Ohio bank. The fellows in the saloon were of opinion that the boat would go no farther than Portsmouth, if that far; the captain wouldn't risk her in this kind of weather.

And sure enough, down comes the captain presently, all gravity and grey whiskers, to announce to the saloon that he couldn't make Portsmouth this trip, on account of the ice, but would put in at Fisher's Landing, which was three miles short of the town, and set anyone ashore that wanted to go. The rest he would carry back to Cincinnati.

They raised a tremendous howl at this, waving their tickets and demanding their money back, and one tubby little chap in gold glasses cries out angrily:

"Intolerable! Fisher's Landing is on the Kentucky shore — how am Ito be in Portsmouth tonight? There won't be a ferry running in this weather."

The captain said he was sorry; the Ohio side was out of the question, because the ice was thick all down the north channel.

"But I must be in Portsmouth tonight!" fumes the tubby man. "Perhaps you don't know me, captain — Congressman Smith, Albert J. Smith, at your service. It is imperative that I be in Portsmouth to support my congressional colleague, Mr Lincoln, at tonight's meeting."

"Well, I'm sorry, Congressman Smith," says the captain, "but if you were going to support the President, I couldn't land you in Ohio today."

"Infamous!" cries the little chap. "Why, I've come from Evansville for this, and Mr Lincoln has broken his journey home specially for this meeting, and is awaiting me in Portsmouth. Really, captain, when matters of such national importance as the slave question are to be discussed by eminent —"

"The slave question!" cries the captain. "Well, sir, you may land in Kentucky for me, let me tell you, and I hope they welcome you warmly!"

And off he stumped, red in the face, leaving the little chap wattling and cursing. I didn't have to be told the captain was a Southerner, but I was vastly intrigued to find my path crossing so close to Mr Lincoln's again. That seemed to me a good reason for turning back to Cindnnati, and giving Portsmouth a wide berth. He and his sharp eyes and embarrassing questions were the last things I wanted to meet just now.

But Cassy wouldn't have it; even landing in Kentucky was preferable to Cincinnati, and she pointed out that the farther I was upriver the safer I'ld be. She was sure there must be a ferry running at Portsmouth; it was only a short walk along the shore, she said, and once across we could journey inland to Columbus and from there quickly to Pittsburgh.

If she didn't mind, I didn't, because I felt we must be beyond pursuit by now, but I noticed she hesitated at the gangplank, scanning the shore at Fisher's Landing, and her steps were slow as we walked over the creaking wooden stage. Suddenly she stopped, caught my arm, and whispered:

"Let us go back! I never thought to stand on this soil again — I feel evil hanging over us. Oh, we shouldn't have landed! Please, let us go back quickly, before it's too late!"

But it was too late even then, for the steamboat, having landed about a dozen of us, including the incensed Congressman, was already backing away from the stage, her whistle whooping like a lost soul. Cassy shuddered beside me, and pulled her veil more tightly round her face. Truth to tell, I didn't care for the look of the place much myself; just the stage, and a mean little tavern, and bleak scrubby country stretching away on both sides.

However, there was nothing for it now. The other passengers crowded round the tavern, asking about a ferry, and the yokel there opined that there might be one later that day, but with the ice he couldn't be sure. The others decided to wait and see, but Cassy insisted that we should push on along the bank; we could see Portsmouth in the distance on the far shore, and it did seem there would be a better chance of a ferry there.

So we set off together, carrying our bags, along the lonely little road that wound among the trees by the river. It was a cold, grey afternoon, with a keen wind sighing among the branches, and through the trunks the brown Ohio ran by, with the massive floes grinding and booming in the brown water. There was low cloud and a threat of snow, and a dank chill in the air that was not just the weather. Cassy was silent as we walked, but her words still sounded in my ears, and although I told myself we were safe enough by this time, surely, I found myself ever glancing back along the deserted muddy track, lying drear and silent under the winter sky.

We must have walked about an hour, and although it was still early afternoon it seemed to me to be growing darker, when we saw buildings ahead, and came to a tiny village on the river bank. We were nearly opposite Portsmouth by now, and already some lights were twinkling across the water. The river here seemed to be more choked with ice than ever, stirring and heaving but moving only gently downstream.

The keeper of the tavern that served the place laughed to scorn our inquiries about a ferry; however, in his opinion the ice would freeze again overnight, and then we could walk across. He couldn't give us beds, but we were welcome to couch down for the night, and in the meantime he could give us fried ham and coffee.

"We should have stayed at Fisher's Landing," says I, but Cassy just sank down wearily on a bench without replying. I offered her some coffee but she shook her head, and when I reminded her it was only for one night, she whispered:

"It is very near us now — I can feel the dark shadow coming closer. Oh, God! Oh, God! Why did I set foot on this accursed shore again!"

"What bloody shadow?" snaps I, for she had my nerves like fiddle strings. "We're snug enough here, girl, within spitting distance of Ohio! We've come this far, in God's name; who's going to stop us now?"

And as though in answer to my question, from somewhere down the road outside, came the yelping and baying of hounds.

Cassy started, and I own that my heart took a sudden leap, although what's a dog barking, after all? And then came the sound of footsteps, and men's voices, and presently the door was shoved open, and half a dozen or so rough fellows came in and bawled for the landlord to bring them a jug of spirits and some food. I didn't like the look of them by half, big tough-looking men with pistols in their belts and two of them carrying rifles; their leader was a tall, black-bearded villain with a broken nose who gave me a hard stare and a curt good day and then strode to the door to curse the dogs leashed up outside. I felt Cassy sink shuddering against me, and just caught her whisper:

"Slave-catchers! Oh, God help us!"

I fought down my instinctive desire to make a dash for the door; I'd made too many sudden dashes on this trip already. My throat was dry and my hands trembling, but I forced myself to drink my coffee, and even asked Cassy in a loud, steady voice if she required anything more to eat. Plainly we would have to get out of here as soon as possible, but we must not rouse an instant's suspicion, or we were done for.

The newcomers were talking so much by now that our silence went unnoticed, and almost their first words confirmed what Cassy had said.

"That nigger of Thompson's'll be hidin' up in Mason's Bottom," says one. "That's whar they always run afore they try the Portsmouth ferry. Well, he ain't gettin' no ferry tonight, for sure; he can lay out an' freeze an' the dogs kin pick him up in the mornin'."

"Too bad about the ferry, though," says the leader. "Kinda had a notion to go over tonight, to th' abolitionist meetin'."

"Since when you go to abolitionist meetin's, Buck?"

"Since I heerd that son-of-a-bitch of an Illinoy lawyer goin' to be speakin', that's since when. Precious Mr Goddam Congressman Lincoln. That's a bastard I get real discontented with, that is."

"You figurin' on takin' a few bad eggs along?" says the other, laughing.

"Could be. Could be, if things had looked right, I might have taken me a picket rail, a nice big bag o' feathers, an' mustered up some hot tar to boot. I reckon that's th' only way to discourage some o' these nigger-lovin' duff ers."

"Discourage 'em a dam' sight better with a rope, or a good spread of buckshot," says a third, and other suggestions followed, most of them unrepeatable.

All this time I had felt Cassy trembling beside me, but now she suddenly whispered, in a shaking gasp:

"We must leave! I can't bear it any longer! Please, let us go — anywhere away from them!"

I knew she was near breaking — this same wench who'd killed two men on a dark country road — so I helped her to her feet, and with a muttered good day led her towards the door. Naturally they turned to look at us, and the leader, Buck, says:

"Ain't no ferry movin' tonight, mister. Where you figurin' on goin'?"

"Er … Fisher's Landing," says I.

"No ferry there, either," says he. "You be best here tonight."

I hesitated. "I think we'll move on," says I. "Come, my dear."

And we were almost at the door when he said:

"Hold one one moment, mister." He was sitting forward on his stool, and there was a grin on his loose mouth that I didn't care for. "Pardon my askin' — but would your companion be a white lady?"

Sickened, I turned to face him. "And if she is not?" says I.

"Thought she warn't," says he, standing up. "Mighty fancy dressed, though, for a nigger."

"I like my women well dressed." I tried to keep my voice level, but it wasn't easy.

"Sure, sure," says he, hooking his thumbs in his belt. "Jus' that when I see nigger ladies, an' their wearin' veils, an' shiverin' like they had the ague — well, I get curious." He kicked his stool away and walked forward. "What's your name, wench?"

I saw Cassy's eyes flash behind her veil, and suddenly she was no longer trembling, which made up for me. "Ask my master," she said.

He gave a growl, but checked himself. "Right pert, too. All right, Mister — what's her name?"

"Belinda."

"Is it now?" Suddenly he reached forward, before I could stop him, and twitched away her veil, laughing as she started back. "Well, well, now — right pretty, as well as pert. You're a lucky feller, mister. An' what might your name be?"

"J. C. Stubbs," says I, "and I'll be damned if —"

"You'll be damned anyway, unless I'm mistaken," he snapped, his face vicious. "Belinda an' J. C. Stubbs, eh? Jus' you wait right there, then, while I have a little look here." And he pulled a handful of papers from his pocket. "I been keepin' an eye on you, this few minutes, Mr J. C. Stubbs, an' now I get a look at your little black charmer, I got me a feelin' — where is it, now? — yes, here we have it — uh, huh, Mr Stubbs, I got a suspicion you ain't Mr Stubbs at all, but that you're a Mr Fitzroy Howard, who offered a spankin' mustee gal named Cassy at Memphis a few days back, an' —"

He broke off with a shouted oath, because he was looking down the barrel of my Colt. There was nothing else for it; at the hideous realisation that we were caught I had snatched it from the back of my waist, and as he started back and his hand swept away his coat-tail I jammed the gun into his midriff with the violence of panic, and bawled in his face:

"Move, and I'll blow your guts into Ohio! You others, get your hands up — lively now, or I'll spread your friend all over you!"

I was red in the face with terror, and my hand was quivering on the butt, but to them I was probably a fearsome sight. Their hands shot up, a rifle clattered to the floor, and Buck's ugly face turned yellow. He fell back before me, his mouth trembling, and the sight of it gave me a sudden surge of courage.

"Down on the floor, damn you — all of you! Down, I say, or I'll burn your brains!"

Buck dropped to the boards, and the others followed suit. I hadn't the nerve to go among them to remove their weapons, and for the life of me I couldn't think what to do next. I stood there, swearing at them, wondering if I should shoot Buck where he lay, but I hadn't the bate for it. He raised his head to cry hoarsely:

"You ain't gonna run nowhere, mister! We'll get you before you're gone a mile — you an' that yaller slut! We'll make you pay for this —"

I snarled and mowed at them, brandishing my gun, and he cowered down, and then I backed slowly towards the door, still covering them — the Colt was shaking like a jelly. I couldn't think — there wasn't time. If we ran for it now, where would we run to? They'd overhaul us, with their filthy dogs — if only there was some way to delay them! A sudden inspiration struck me, and I glanced at Cassy; she was at my elbow, quivering like a hunted beast, and if she too was terrified at least it wasn't with the terror that is helpless.

"Cassy!" I snapped. "Can you use a gun?"

She nodded. "Take this, then," says I. "Cover them — and if one of them stirs a finger shoot the swine in the stomach! There — catch hold. Good girl, good girl — I'll be back in an instant!"

"What is it?" Her eyes were wild. "Where are you —"

"Don't ask questions! Trust me!" And with that I slipped out of the door, pulled it to, and was off like a stung whippet. I'd make quarter of a mile, maybe more, before she would twig, or they overpowered her, and that quarter mile could be the difference between life and death — but even as I was away with my first frenzied spring a dun-coloured, white-fanged horror came surging up at my side, teeth dragged at the tail of my coat, and I came down in a sprawling tangle of limbs with one of those damned hounds snarling and tearing at me.

By the grace of God I fell just beyond reach of its leash; I suppose the brute had gone for me because it knew a guilty fugitive when it saw one, and now it tore and frothed against its chain to be at me. I jumped up to resume my flight, and then I heard Cassy scream in the tavern, the Colt banged, somebody howled, and the door flew open. Cassy came out at a blind run, making for the thicket that bordered the river; I spared not a glance for the tavern door but went high-stepping after her for all I was worth, expecting a bullet between the shoulders at every stride.

As luck had it the thicket was only a dozen yards away, but by the time I had burst through it Cassy was well ahead of me. I suppose it was blind instinct that made me follow her, now that my own chance of a clear getaway had been scuppered by whatever had gone amiss in the tavern — the stupid bitch could have held them longer than two seconds, you'd have thought — and there was nothing to do but shift like blazes. It was growing dusk, but not near dark enough for concealment, and she was running for dear life along the bank eastwards. I pounded down the slope, yelling to her, at my wits' end over where we were going to run to. Could we hide — no, my God, the dogs! We couldn't outstrip them along the bank — where then? The same thoughts must have been in Cassy's mind, for as I closed on her, and heard the din of shouting rise a hundred yards behind me, she suddenly checked, and with a despairing cry leaped down the bank to the water's edge.

"No! No!" I bawled. "Not on the ice — we'll drown for certain!" But she never heeded. There was a narrow strip of brown water between her and the nearest floe, and she cleared it like a hunter, slipping and falling, but scrambling up again and clambering over the hummocks beyond. Oh, Christ, thinks I, she's mad, but then I looked behind, and there they were, running down from the tavern, with the dogs yelping in the background. I took a race down the bank and jumped, my feet flew from under me on the ice, and I came down with a sickening crash. I staggered up, plunging over the mass of frozen cakes locked like a great raft ahead of me, and saw Cassy steadying herself for a leap on to a level floe beyond. She made it, and I tumbled down the hummocks and leaped after her. Somehow I kept my footing, and slithered and slipped across the floe, which must have been thirty yards from side to side.

Beyond it there were great rough cakes bucking about in the current, but so close together that we were able to scramble across them. Once my leg went in, and I just avoided plunging headlong; Cassy was twenty yards ahead, and I remember roaring to her to wait for me — God knows why, but one does these things. And then behind me came the crack of a shot, and glancing over my shoulder I saw that our pursuers were leaving the bank and taking the ice in our wake.

God! It was a nightmare. If I'd had a moment to think I'd have given up the ghost, but fear sent me skipping and stumbling over the pack, babbling prayers and curses, sprawling on the ice, cutting my hands and knees to shreds, and staggering up to follow her dark figure over the floes. All round the ice was grinding and groaning fearfully; it surged beneath our feet, cracking and tilting, and then I saw her stumble and kneel clinging to a floe; she was sobbing and shrieking, and two more shots came banging behind and whistled above us in the dusk.

As I overtook her she managed to regain her feet, glaring wildly back beyond me. Her dress was in shreds, her hands were dark with blood, her hair was trailing loose like a witch's. But she went reeling on, jumping another channel and staggering across the rugged floe beyond. I set myself for the jump, slipped, and fell full length into the icy water.

It was so bitter that I screamed, and she turned back and came slithering on all fours to the edge. I grabbed her hand, and somehow I managed to scramble out. The yelping of the dogs was sounding closer, a gun banged, a frightful pain tore through my buttock, and I pitched forward on to the ice. Cassy screamed, a man's voice sounded in a distant roar of triumph, and I felt blood coursing warm down my leg.

"My God, are you hurt?" she cried, and for some idiot reason I bad a vision of a tombstone bearing the legend: "Here lies Harry Flashman, late 11th Hussars, shot in the arse while crossing the Ohio River". The pain was sickening, but I managed to lurch to my feet, clutching my backside, and Cassy seized my hand, dragging me on.

"Not far! Not far!" she was crying, and through a mist of pain I could see the lights on the Ohio bank, not far away on our right. If only we could make the shore, we might hide, or stagger into Portsmouth itself and get assistance, but then my wound betrayed me, my leg wouldn't answer, and I sank down on the ice.

We weren't fifty yards from the shore, with fairly level ice ahead, but the feeling had gone from my limb. I looked round; Buck and his fellows were floundering across the ice a bare hundred yards away. Cassy's voice was crying:

"Up! Up! Only a little farther! Oh, try, try!"

"Rot you!" cries I. "I'm shot! I can't!"

She gave an inarticulate cry, and then by God, she seized my arms, stooped into me, and somehow managed to half-drag, halfcarry me across the ice. There must have been amazing strength in the slim body, for I'm a great hulking fellow, and she was near exhaustion. But she got me along, until we fell in a heap close to the bank, and then we slithered and floundered through the icefilled shallows, and dragged ourselves up the muddy slope of the Ohio bank.³⁹

"Free soil" sobs Cassy. "Free soil!" And a bullet smacked into the bank between us to remind her that we were still a long way from safety. That shot must have done something to my muscular control, for I managed to hobble up the bank, with Cassy hauling at me, and then we stumbled forward towards the lights of Portsmouth. It was only half a mile away, but try running half a mile with a bullet hole in your rump. With Cassy's arm round me I could just stagger; we plunged ahead through the gloaming, and there were figures on the road ahead, people staring at us and calling out. Just before we reached them, we passed a tree, and my eye caught the lettering on a great yellow bill that had been stuck there. It read something about "Great Meeting Tonight, All Welcome", and in large letters the names "Lincoln" and "Smith". I was gasping, all in, but I remembered that the little tabby man on the steamboat had been Smith, and he had said Lincoln was speaking in Portsmouth. And I had sense enough to realise that wherever Lincoln was there would be enemies of slavery and friends to all fugitives like us. Two hours ago I'd been wanting to avoid him like the pox, but now it was life or death, and there was something else stirring in my head. I don't know why it was, but I remembered that big man, and his great hard knuckles and dark smiling eyes, and I thought, by God, get to Lincoln! Get to him; we'll be safe with him. They won't dare touch us if he's there. And as Cassy and I stumbled along the road, and I heard voices calling out in concern: "Who are they? What is it? Great snakes, he's bleeding — look, he's been shot," I managed to find the breath to cry out:

"Mr Lincoln — where can I find Mr Lincoln?"

"Great snakes, man!" A face was peering into mine. "Who are you? What's —"

"Slave-catchers!" cries Cassy. "Behind us — with guns and dogs."

"What's that, girl? Slave-catchers! My stars, get them up — here, Harry, lend a hand! John, you run to your uncle's — quick flow! Tell him slave-catchers come over the river — hurry, boy, there's no time to lose!"

I could have cried out in relief, but as I turned my head I saw in the distance figures clambering the bank, and heard the yelp of those accursed dogs.

"Get me to Lincoln, for God's sake!" I shouted. "Where is he — what house?"

"Lincoln? You mean Mr Abraham Lincoln? Why, he's up to Judge Payne's, ain't he, Harry? C'mon, then, mister, it ain't that far, ifn you can manage along. Harry, help the lady, there. This way, then — best foot forward!"

Somehow I managed to raise a run, and by blessed chance the house proved to be not more than a few furlongs away. I was aware of a hubbub behind us, and gathered that Buck and his friends had run into various Ohio citizens who were disputing their progress, but only verbally, for as we turned into a wide gateway, and our helpers assisted us up a long pathway to a fine white house, I heard the barking again, and what I thought was Buck's voice raised in angry defiance.

We stumbled up the steps, and someone knocked and beat on the panels, and a scared-looking nigger put his head round the door, but I blundered ahead, pushing him back, with a man helping Cassy beside me. We were in a big, well-lit hall, and I remember the carpet was deep red, and there was a fine mural painted on the wall above the stairs. People were hurrying out of the rooms; two or three gentlemen, and a lady who gave a little shriek at the sight of us.

"Good God!" cries one of the men. "What is the meaning — ? who are you — ?"

"Lincoln!" I shouted, and as my leg gave way I sat down heavily. "Where's Lincoln? I want him. I've been shot in the backside — slave-catchers! Lincoln!"

At this there was a great hubbub, and women swooning by the sound of it, and I hobbled to the newell post of the stair and hung on — I couldn't sit down, you understand. Cassy, with a man supporting her, tottered past me and sank into a chair, while the nicely-dressed ladies and gentlemen gaped at us in consternation, two horrid, bleeding scarecrows leaving a muddy trail across that excellent carpet. A stout man in a white beard was confronting me, shouting:

"How dare you, sir? Who are you, and what — ?"

"Lincoln," says I, pretty hoarse. "Where's Lincoln?"

"Here I am," says a voice. "What do you want with me?"

And there he was, at my shoulder, frowning in astonishment.

"I'm Fitzhoward," says I. "You remember —"

"Fitzhoward? I don't —"

"No, not Fitzhoward, blast it. Wait, though — Arnold — oh, God, no!" My mind was swimming. "No — Comber! Lieutenant Comber — you must remember me?"

He took a pace back in bewilderment. "Comber? The English officer — how in the world — ?"

"That's a slave girl," I gasped out. "I — I rescued her — from down South — the slave-catchers found us — chased us across river — still coming after us." And praise be to providence I had the sense to hit the right note. "Don't let them take her back! Save her, for God's sake!"

It must have sounded well, at least to the others, for I heard a gasp of dismay and pity, and one of the women, a little ugly battleship of a creature, bustles over to Cassy to take her hands.

"But — but, here, sir!" The stout chap was all agog. "What, a runaway girl? Septy, shut that door this minute — what's that? My God, more scarecrows! What the devil is this? Who are — ?"

I looked to the door, and my heart went down to my boots. The old nigger was clinging to the handle as though to support himself, his eyes rolling, the people of the house were rustling back to the doorways off the hall, the stout man — who I guessed was Judge Payne — had fallen silent. Buck stood in the doorway, panting hard, his clothes sodden and mud-spattered, with his gun cradled in his left arm, and behind him were the bearded faces of his fellows. Buck was grinning, though, with his loose lower lip stuck out, and now he raised his free hand and pointed at Cassy.

"That's a runaway slave there, mister — an' I'm a warranted slave-catcher! That scoundrel at the stair there's the thievin' skunk that stole her!" He took a pace forward into the hall. "I'm gonna take both of 'em back where they belong!"

Payne seemed to swell up. "Good God!" says he. "What — what? This is intolerable! First these two, and now — is my house supposed to be a slave market, or what?"

"I want 'em both," Buck was beginning, and then he must have realised where he was. "Kindly sorry for intrudin' on you, mister, but this is where they run to, an' this is where I gotta follow. So — jus' you roust 'em out here to me, an' we won't be troublin' you or your ladies no further."

For a moment you could have heard a pin drop. Then Buck added defiantly:

"That's the law. I got the law on my side."

I felt Lincoln stiffen beside me. "For God's sake," I whispered. "Don't let them take us!"

He moved forward a pace, beside Judge Payne, and I heard one of the ladies begin to sob gently — the first sobs before hysterics. Then Lincoln says, very quietly:

"There's a law against forcing an entry into a private house."

"Indeed there is!" cries the judge. "Take yourself off, sir — this instant, and your bandits with you!"

Buck glared at him. "Ain't forcin' nuthin'. I'm recapturin' a slave, like I'm legally entitled to. Anyone gits in my way, is harbourin' runaways, an' that's a crime! I know the law, mister, an' I tell you, either you put them out o' doors for us, or stand aside — because if they ain't comin' out, we're comin' in!"

Judge Payne fell back at that, and the other people shrank away, some of the women bolting back to the drawing room. But not the ugly little woman who bad her arm round Cassy's shoulders.

"Don't you move another step!" she cries out. "Nathan — don't permit him. They don't touch a hair of this poor creature's head in this house. Stand back, you bully!"

"But, my dear!" cries Payne in distress. "If what they say is true, we have no choice, I fear —"

"Who says it's true? There now, child, be still; they shan't harm you."

"Look, missus." Buck swaggered forward, limbering his rifle, and stood four-square, with his pals at his back. "You best 'tend to what your ol' man says. We got the law behind us." He glanced at Lincoln, who hadn't moved and was right in his path. "Step aside."

Lincoln still didn't move. He stood very easy and his drawl was steady as ever.

"On the subject of the law," says he, "you say she's a runaway, and that this man stole her. We don't know the truth about that, though, do we? Perhaps they tell a different tale. I know a little law myself, friend, and I would suggest that if you have a claim on these two persons, you should pursue it in the proper fashion, which is through a court. An Ohio court," he added. "And I'd further advise you, as a legal man, not to prejudice your case by armed house-breaking. Or, for that matter, by dirtying this good lady's carpet. If you have a just claim, go and enter it, in the proper place." He paused. "Good night, sir."

It was so cool and measured and unanswerable that I could have wept with relief to hear him — but I didn't know much about slave-catchers. Buck just grunted and sneered at him.

"Oh, yeah, I know about the courts! I guess I do — I bin to court before —"

"I'll believe that," says Lincoln.

"Yeah? You're a mighty fancy goddam legal beanpole, ain't you though? Well, I'll tell you suthin', mister — I know about courts an' writs an' all, an' there ain't one o' them worth a lick in hell to me! I'm here — them dam' runaways is here — an' if I take 'em away nice an' quiet, we don' have to trouble with no courts nor nuthin'. An' afterwards — well, I reckon I'll answer right smart for any incon-venience caused here tonight. But I ain't bein' fobbed by smart talk — they're comin' with me!"

And he pushed the barrel of his piece forward just a trifle.

"You'll just take them," says Lincoln. "By force. Is that so?"

"You bet it's so! I reckon the courts won't worry me none, neither! We'll have done justice, see?"

I quailed to listen to him. God, I thought, we're finished; he had the force behind him. If he wanted to march in and drag us out bodily, the law would support him in the end. There would be protests, no doubt, and some local public outcry, but what good would that be to us, once they had us south of the river again? I heard Cassy moan, and I sank down, done up and despairing, beside the newell. And then Lincoln laughed, shaking his head.

"So that's your case is it, Mr — ?"

"Buck Robinson's my —"

"Buck will do. That's your style, is it, Buck? Brute force and talk about it afterwards. Well, it has its logic, I suppose — but, d'ye know, Buck, I don't like it. No, sir. That's not how we do things where I come from —"

"I don't give a damn how you do things where you come from, Mr Smart," Buck spat out. "Get out of my way."

"I see," says Lincoln, not moving. "Well, I've put my case to you, in fair terms, and you've answered it — admirably, after your own lights. And since you won't listen to reason, and believe that might is right — well, I'll just have to talk in your terms, won't I? So —"

"You hold your gab and stand aside, mister," shouts Buck. "Now, I'm warnin' you fair!"

"And I'm warning you, Buck!" Lincoln's voice was suddenly sharp. "Oh, I know you, I reckon. You're a real hard-barked Kentucky boy, own brother to the small-pox, weaned on snake juice and grizzly hide, aren't you? You've killed more niggers than the dysentery, and your grandma can lick any white man in Tennessee. You talk big, step high, and do what you please, and if any 'legal beanpole' in a store suit gets in your way you'll cut him right down to size, won't you just? He's not a practical man, is he? But you are, Buck — when you've got your gang at your back! Yes, sir, you're a practical man, all right."

Buck was mouthing at him, red-faced and furious, but Lincoln went on in the same hard voice.

"So am I, Buck. And more — for the benefit of any shirt-tail chawbacon with a big mouth, I'm a who's-yar boy from Indiana myself, and I've put down better men than you just by spitting teeth at them.⁴⁰ If you doubt it, come ahead! You want these people-you're going to take them?" He gestured towards Cassy. "All right, Buck — you try it. Just — try it."

The rest of the world decided that Abraham Lincoln was a great orator after his speech at Gettysburg. I realised it much earlier, when I heard him laying it over that gun-carrying bearded ruffian who was breathing brimstone at him. I couldn't see Lincoln's face, but I'll never forget that big gangling body in the long coat that didn't quite fit, towering in the centre of the hall, with the big hands motionless at his sides. God knows how he had the nerve, with six armed men in front of him. But when I think back to it, and hear that hard, rasping drawl sounding in my memory, and remember the force in those eyes, I wonder how Buck had the nerve to stand up in front of him, either. He did, though, for about half a minute, glaring from Lincoln to Cassy to me and back to Lincoln again. Twice he was going to speak, and twice thought better of it; he was a brawny, violent man with a gun in his hands, but speaking objectively at a safe distance now, he has my sympathy. As a fellow bully and coward, I can say that Buck bebayed precisely as I should have done in his place. He glared and breathed hard, but that was his limit. And then through the open door came the distant sound of raised voices, and a hurrying of many feet on the road.

"I doubt if that's the Kentucky militia," says Lincoln. "Better be going, Buck."

Buck stood livid, still hesitating; then with a curse he swung about and stumped to the door. He turned again there, dark with passion, and pointed a shaking finger.

"I'll be back!" says he. "Don't you doubt it, mister — I'll be back, an' I'll have the law with me! We'll see about this, by thunder! I'll get the law!"

They clattered down the steps, Buck swearing at the others, and as the door closed and the exclamations started flying, Lincoln turned and looked down at me. His forehead was just a little damp.

"The ancients, in their wisdom, made a great study of rhetoric," says he. "But I wonder did they ever envisage Buck Robinson? Yes, they probably did." He pursed his lips. "He's a big fellow, though — likely big fellow, he is. I — I think I'd sooner see Cicero square up to him behind the barn than me. Yes, I rather think I would." He adjusted his coat and cracked his knuckles. "And now, Mr Comber — ?"